A cold tremor still traced Isolde’s spine, the revelation of the Grey Hunger a burning brand on her mind. Pages of the ancient tome lay open, its stark warnings about a sorrow-devouring entity echoing in the suffocating quiet of the archive. Elara’s face, etched in the dust motes, seemed to waver before her eyes, a victim twice over. Stillness pressed, heavy and old, in the forgotten corner of Blackwood Manor. A faint, unidentifiable scent, like dried herbs and grave earth, clung to the air. Her own breath hitched, a harsh sound in the deep silence. Listened, then. Listened for something beyond the thrumming in her ears. A whisper. A note. Always, it had been there, just beyond the edge of hearing, a soft, crooning melody. It had woven itself into her grief, a familiar comfort. A phantom lullaby, she had called it, attributing it to memory, to madness. Now, the silence stretched, and something shifted within the deeper recesses of her memory. Those specific turns of phrase, the cadence. They weren't just *any* lullaby. They were distinct. Ancient. Rose from the dusty chair, a peculiar certainty guiding her feet. The archive was vast, a labyrinth of forgotten knowledge. She had sought the Grey Hunger, found its chilling truth. What else had the hunger-driven manor hidden? Moved past stacks of ledgers, past bound chronicles of Blackwood’s grim history. Her fingers brushed across brittle spines, each touch sending a puff of fine, grey dust into the stagnant air. A section, darker than the rest, beckoned. These shelves held fewer books, but those present were thick with age, their bindings warped, their titles often illegible or written in a script she barely recognized as archaic Blackwood dialect. Here, folklore mingled with forgotten rites, local legends intertwining with obscure agricultural practices. Then, a volume, smaller than the rest, drew her eye. Its cover, once richly embossed leather, was now cracked and faded, a stylized raven’s head barely discernible. No proper title, only a single, unsettling word etched in tarnished silver: *Wailsong*. Pulled it free. The air seemed to thicken, the dust motes dancing with newfound urgency in the weak light filtering from a grimy window. The book felt impossibly heavy, cold against her fingertips. Opened it, the dry crackle of its brittle pages like bones snapping. Inside, hand-scripted verses in an elegant, spidery hand filled the pages, interspersed with musical notations. Simple, stark melodies. Folk tunes, she thought, at first. Scrolled through the initial entries – harvesting songs, children’s rhymes. Then, a distinct shift. The words grew darker. The melodies, though still deceptively simple, carried an undertone of profound sorrow, even in their notation. Found it. A particular arrangement of notes, unmistakably familiar. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat, a sharp, ragged sound. There, on the yellowed page, was the tune that had haunted her since Elara’s passing. The ‘lullaby’. Read the accompanying text. Not a lullaby. Never a lullaby.

Chapter 24: Dirges Disguised